POTC : Rum Tales
by ShahbanouScheherazade
Summary: A collection of unrelated ficlets, one-shots, and drabbles involving characters from Pirates Of The Caribbean and the occasional OC. First story features young Jack Sparrow, 2, 3 and 5 feature Will Turner, 4 has Pintel and Ragetti, 6 features James Norrington. Enjoy!
1. Souvenir of London

**Pairing: **Jack Sparrow, mention of Edward Teague

**Word Count: **1,028

**Prompt: **Together

**Summary:** Young Jack arrives in London for a good time – if he can distract the Brat.

**A/N:** Inspired by FreedomOftheSeas' prompt, and written as a thank-you for her awesome beta skills!

**NOTE: I have no claim whatsoever to any of the brilliant POTC characters; I am grateful to be sitting at a banquet table set by truly talented storytellers.**

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**Souvenir of London**

"I thought I was to take this little bag of sparkly stones round to your London friend Rigby, to make a good market," Jack protested. He stuffed the bag into his breeches pocket. "And now I'm to be lumbered with _her_? A seven-year old? You must be joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking, boy?" Teague's intense stare proclaimed that there would be no further discussion of the subject. Jack rolled his eyes; his London trip was becoming a chore, between delivering gems to old Rigby, and then escorting the daughter of Teague's closest friend to her ex-army captain father. He didn't usually mind the little lassie's company, but damned if he was going to waste precious time in London amusing her at marionette shows when the charms of the town's lovely ladies beckoned. He concentrated on devising a way by which he could still enjoy all the pleasures London offered to a footloose young man on his own. By the time Jack and his small companion reached Wapping, he was ready to put forward his scheme.

"Now here's the plan," he said to her, "We can both have fun in London, as long as we work together." He checked the knots in the long cord that tethered her to him for security. "We help each other. Right, Brat?"

The Brat nodded. "Right. Together," she repeated. "And Isa can help," she added, turning to the doll he had bought her as a bribe.

Jack explained his plan. He would untether her, they would eat supper at the Prospect of Whitby, and he might invite a friend to join them. "Then," he instructed, "if you see me do this" – he jerked his head to one side – "that means that you're to leave Jack and his friend for awhile, and sit by the fire until called for. Savvy?"

"You said 'together'," the Brat replied accusingly.

"Ay, together! We'll work together . . . apart," he told her. She nodded again, but seemed unconvinced.

It appeared to Jack that his plan had worked, as far as he could remember; but in the morning light, as he slowly awakened with a massive headache, he was less certain. All had gone well as supper brought the company of pretty, merry Cecily, whose black hair and velvet brown eyes were set off by her milky skin, rosy cheeks, and the low cut of her crimson dress. After the second bottle of rum, however, things had gone a bit pear-shaped. He remembered motioning to the Brat, who had been swinging her legs restlessly, but the remainder of the evening was a blur. Jack had an impression of staggering up the stairs – and falling, he reckoned, as he felt the painful bruise on his shin – and enjoying several enlightening hours under Cecily's expert ministrations before passing out.

He heard the noise of someone rummaging through clothes, then the sound of light footsteps and a door opening. Alarmed, he sat up quickly, just in time to see Cecily dart out of the room, the bag of gemstones in her hand.

"Oi! You!" Jack yelled. "That's mine!" He ran to the window, only to see Cecily legging it up the street. Jack began to dress, but he knew she had disappeared by now. He groaned inwardly. Teague would kill him. Or Rigby might do the honours. In fact, now he thought of it, the Brat's father would jump straight to the head of the queue, unless he could remember where he had left her.

_Now I'm for it_. _I'll have all dad's crew plus a company of bloody Light Infantry chasin' me_, he thought, as he made his way unsteadily down to the taproom. To his great relief, the Brat was curled up asleep in a chair before the fireplace, still holding her doll.

"Oi, mouse!" he said, gently shaking her shoulder. "Did you see my lady friend come runnin' through here?" From the way she glanced up, he saw that the Brat had only been shamming sleep.

"Of course, I did," she replied. "I liked her. She was fun." Then she added, "I didn't know you could dance."

"Dance, did I?" repeated Jack, holding his forehead.

"Yes, there," she informed him, pointing at a table.

"I'll wager that was a treat," Jack muttered. "What else did I — never mind," he said, thinking better of the question. "Well, I may as well deliver you to your dad and face the music. Rigby won't half lose his rag."

"I'm sorry about his rag," replied the Brat, not understanding. "Then perhaps you should give him Isa?"

"Ta, love, but she's your souvenir, and I don't think he really fancies a poppet. We're off, then." He walked towards the door, holding out his hand.

"I think you should give him Isa," she repeated, not moving from her seat. Then she remarked, "Last year, you put thistles in my hair."

Jack turned back to her wearily. "And never, _ever_ did I think they'd be so hard to get out," he explained, not for the first time. "Honest mistake. Apologies all round. Off we go." He beckoned again.

"It's alright. We're square now," she said, using the expression he had taught her, "Because I had to trip you up a bit on the stairs last night to put the bag back in your pocket."

"That's – you _what?_ Why, you cheeky little diver!" Jack reached her chair in two long strides. "What have you done?"

Beaming, the Brat held out her doll. As Jack put his hand around its cotton torso, he felt the lumpy gemstones shifting about. "You said we should help each other," she said. "I was trying to help. I put little rocks in the bag for Cecily."

"Are they all here?" he asked her, hardly able to believe his luck. She nodded, and he gave a deep sigh of relief.

"I've to take you to your dad," he said, after a further moment's reflection, "but first we're going to Covent Garden, to the marionette show. Together." He took her hand and they set out through the busy streets of London.


	2. Ite, Missa Est

**Pairing: **Will Turner

**Word Count: **415

**Prompt: **Article

**Summary:** Young Will Turner must pay his fare to the West Indies by selling . . . something.

**NOTE: I have no claim whatsoever to any of the brilliant POTC characters; I am grateful to be sitting at a banquet table set by truly talented storytellers.**

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**Ite, Missa Est**

Towards afternoon, the noise of the busy thoroughfare began to disturb the peace of the small room in Rotherhithe. Against the rumble of carts, the songs of the buskers and the general hubbub of the crowds, Mrs Shadderall drew the window closed, and turned to the sombre boy standing by his mother's bed. Her late tenant's shrouded body lay cold and quiet.

"You do see that it's for the best?" Mrs Shadderall enquired. "I mean to say, you've hardly enough to bury your mother. You have no articles of value, do you, anything I could sell to pay your fare?" She cast her sharp gaze around the dim room.

Will Turner shook his head, a wary look in his dark eyes.

"Well, then!" Mrs Shadderall exclaimed, as if a great point had been proven. "You'll be indentured to me brother, and smithin's a good trade. They all know Micah Brown in Port Royal! How fortunate for you!"

"And I'll likely find my father, don't you think?" he asked the landlady.

_And I'll likely marry the Young Pretender,_ thought Mrs Shadderall, _but no sense fretting the boy still more._ She nodded. "Oh, yes, dearie! But in the meantime you'll have your articles of indenture, and be bound to Micah for eight years."

"Shouldn't I work only three years for the fare?" Will enquired anxiously, twisting his hands. His eyes were on the worn bedclothes with their telltale rusty stains, the traces of his mother's coughing fits.

_Well, that's gratitude,_ reflected Mrs Shadderall. She replied with a tight smile, "Ah, but you're only small, y'see. It'll take Micah eight years to get the work out of you what a bigger lad could do in three. Now, I suppose you want a moment with your mother, before I put you on your ship?"

He nodded and Mrs Shadderall withdrew from the room. Then, he spoke softly to his mother's spirit, patting the medallion under his shirt.

"I won't forget what father told you about it," he said to her. "Don't show it – don't tell no one I've got it," he thought for a moment. "And don't sell it, no matter what."

He hesitated, remembering their last conversation. What else had she said as she held his hand for the last time? _Your father's a good man. You remember that._ The boy nodded, and hurried from the room with head slightly bowed. Outside, the noise of the street drifted up to the deserted room. The buskers finished their song and moved on.


	3. Induction

**Pairing: **Will Turner

**Word Count: **619

**Prompt: **Hazard

**NOTE: I have no claim whatsoever to any of the brilliant POTC characters; I am grateful to be sitting at a banquet table set by truly talented storytellers.**

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**Induction**

Sergeant-Major Avory was dreaming, dozing in his camp chair in the warmth of the tropical sun after conducting the morning's drill. Avory's notoriously punishing drills were known for greatly improving his trainees' odds of survival in battle, but lately, these exertions left the old soldier tired, irritable, and feeling his age.

A cough sounded nearby, and a voice called to him from the waking world. "Sir? Someone wants a word with you." It was Private Watts, sounding amused. Avory opened his eyes, squinting crossly in the late morning light. A young, thin, vaguely familiar-looking lad stood before him.

"Am I fightin' a duel today?" Avory growled at Watts. "With this spindle-shanked pup?" The sergeant's heavy-lidded, ice-blue eyes with their black lashes and hard, sullen glare would have sent most young lads running for home, but Will Turner had spent hours working up his nerve for this interview, and was not so quickly discouraged.

"Sir," he began uncertainly. "Thank you for seeing me. I – I am looking for assistance in understanding this." He proffered a worn copy of George Silver's book on sword fighting.

"What?!" roared Avory. "The pup wants a readin' lesson? Take it to yer bleedin' schoolmaster; I teach sword-fightin', not book-learnin' – an' I teach it to soldiers," he added, lunging forward in his seat and fixing Will with a bellicose stare.

"If I can't learn from a book, will you teach me yourself?" Will persisted, and quickly offered what he hoped might persuade the fearsome old sergeant. "We could play for it – let the cards decide?"

In spite of himself, Avory's thin, straight mouth curled into something resembling a smile. The boy had courage; he must have heard of Avory's reputation as a man who loved gambling, and had planned his sortie accordingly. Grudgingly, the sergeant acknowledged that this lad showed nerve and resourcefulness, two qualities that mattered more in a sword fight than any number of memorised attacks and parries. And unlike most of the men Avory trained, this one seemed to actually want to learn.

"No money, eh?" he asked slyly, having finally recognised his petitioner as the apprentice to Port Royal's drunken blacksmith. "Tell you what: if ye think ye've got the proper stuff, I'll give ye one lesson tomorrow. If I think ye can excel, I'll see about givin' ye more lessons as time allows. Otherwise, ye'll keep to yer trade. That's me offer, take it or leave it."

Before Will could reply, they heard the noise of approaching wheels, and the governor's coach swung into view. Will turned to the street, and gazed with boyish admiration at the passing coach and the delicate, oval face of the governor's daughter that could be seen in the corner of its window. She waved to Will through the glass, and he returned the greeting before turning once again to Avory, who had kept his face expressionless as he watched the encounter.

"Thank you, sir," Will replied enthusiastically, drawing himself up straight. "I'll meet you tomorrow to begin training." He turned and ran up the street towards the smithy.

Watts glanced at the sergeant. "D' ye think he knows you're the finest swordsman in the West Indies? You'll teach him well, sir, and all to the good: a man who don't know how to properly wield a sword is a hazard to himself and to others."

Avory's slight smile had a knowing look behind it. "Well. . . that's easily taught." he remarked with a rueful laugh as he thought of the two young faces and the joyful smiles of first love. "If only swords were the greatest hazard we face, eh?"

Closing his eyes, he settled back to sleep in the sun.


	4. Thou Tea-Chest

**Pairing: **Pintel, Ragetti

**Word Count: **828

**Prompt: **Tea

**Summary:** Before the _Pearl_ reaches Isla de Muerta, Pintel teaches Ragetti to read tea leaves. Many thanks to **mrspencil** for her beta work and encouragement!

**NOTE: I have no claim whatsoever to any of the brilliant POTC characters; I am grateful to be sitting at a banquet table set by truly talented storytellers.**

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**Thou Tea-Chest**

Before he had reached the lower courses in the ratline, Pintel spotted Ragetti on the deck, beckoning excitedly.

"It's ready!" Ragetti announced in a conspiratorial whisper, as Pintel stepped off the rigging. "It's in the for'ard 'old. Got it last year from me old messmate, an' 'e took it off the ship of Black Bart 'imself – from the cap'n's personal stores!"

The two friends went furtively below deck, avoiding Barbossa's sharp eyes. They made their way into a corner of the hold, and there it was, just as Ragetti had poured it – a still-warm cup of tea and an ebony tea chest, arranged on a large crate.

"I 'ave to drink it down, but not the leaves – that's wot makes them pictures," Ragetti instructed his friend. He took a square of folded parchment from the tea chest and handed it to Pintel. "An' this is wot you've to read to me, so's I can find out wot they means." He grinned, and added, "This way, you an' me'll find out for sure whether we're going to get Cortez's gold medallions or not!"

Pintel took the document reluctantly. Although he had never actually claimed to be able to read, he had always allowed Ragetti to assume that he could. There seemed no way to avoid Ragetti's request, but perhaps he could bluff his way through the fortune-telling without admitting that he was as unlettered as his friend. He opened the parchment and pretended to study the words.

There were numerous small pictures and each one had a line or two of writing next to it. He assumed a knowledgeable expression. "Right," he said. "I'll do the... the..."

"Tasseology," Ragetti said helpfully. "That's wot they calls it."

"I know that!" retorted Pintel. "Well? Go on, then: drink it off."

Ragetti raised the cup and drank the tea carefully, but without lowering the cup until he had drained it. Then the two pirates peered into the empty cup at the tiny clumps of tea leaves stuck to its sides.

"I think that's a bird, there," Ragetti ventured, pointing.

Pintel agreed; it was most certainly a bird. Pretending to consult the document, he noticed an inky image of a bird on the wing. Had he been able to read, the text next to it would have informed him that "A man will return after a long journey."

"Ay, that bird be a sparrow, meanin' Cap'n Jack," Pintel announced, "an' it means 'e's flown away t' Fiddler's Green, an' won't be comin' back again."

Ragetti smiled delightedly. "Won't be back," he sniggered.

They studied the cup again. "An' that," Ragetti pointed to another clump, "That looks like a dagger an' a ball – no! I think it's a coin! Maybe it's the medallions!" He looked at Pintel, who had resorted to the document again.

Next to the image of a coin and dagger, the text read, "A dangerous venture to acquire money will bring disaster." Pintel squinted at it as though he were reading, then said, "Why, that's the sword of old Cortez 'imself, pointin' to 'is treasure!"

"Treasure . . . 'E means for us to 'ave it!" rejoined Ragetti, gleefully. Then his expression turned to one of fear. "But wot's that one there – that looks like . . . like the angel o' death!"

Pintel looked at the leaves and felt a nasty shock; they did indeed resemble a death's head. He quickly dropped the document, which skidded away on the floor. As Ragetti dove after it, Pintel used his thumb to wipe the offending leaves from the cup.

Ragetti retrieved the parchment and handed it back to his friend. Pintel glanced briefly at the drawing of the death's head and its description, "A malicious deed will bring a terrible curse." Then he looked into the cup again.

"I don't see no angel o' death," he said to Ragetti.

His friend studied the cup with his good eye. "Hmph," Ragetti said, rather puzzled. "Seems t' be gone. I s'pose it were one o' them 'allucinations."

"Seen enough?" asked Pintel. "It looks like we're in a fair way to make our fortunes on this voyage."

Ragetti nodded. "I'll fetch Cap'n Barbossa," he said, jumping to his feet. "He won't be half pleased to see this! 'E might even give us extra shares, for bringin' 'im good news!"

Alarmed, Pintel caught Ragetti by the tail of his shirt.

"Wait - ye can't do that," he cautioned.

"Why not?" Ragetti looked confused. "Ain't that wot it said?"

"Oh, ay," answered Pintel. "It's only that . . ." he thought quickly, and suddenly hit upon a reason. "It's, uh . . . in _French!_ It's in French an' the cap'n don't read French, so . . . 'e might feel we was gettin' above ourselves, talkin' to 'im about things 'e don' know. Best keep it to ourselves for now."

Ragetti nodded. "Yeah, keep it to ourselves," he conceded, yielding to Pintel's superior reasoning ability. Then he grinned. "Pity, though – I'd 'ave loved t' see 'is face when everything we'd told 'im came true!"


	5. Storm Warning

**Pairing: **None

**Characters: **Young Will, OC

**Word Count: **509

**Prompt: **Storm

**Summary:** You can learn many things from a great teacher.

**NOTE: I have no claim whatsoever to any of the brilliant POTC characters; I am grateful to be sitting at a banquet table set by truly talented storytellers.**

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**Storm Warning**

The heavy tropical rain was bucketing down, sending torrents racing over the wet cobblestones of Port Royal as the summer storm drenched the town. A lone soldier could be seen braving the deluge, marching with head down and a determined stride towards the blacksmith's establishment. Sergeant Avory, impervious to the thunder and lightning about him, had been cursing under his breath from the moment he left the barracks; but not because he was daunted by the storm. His young pupil, the blacksmith's apprentice, had missed his lesson, and Avory was in a blazing ill humour about it.

Young Will, working at the forge, was startled by the smithy's door slamming open to reveal the soaked, scowling Avory, appropriately accompanied by a brilliant flash of lightning and the roar of thunder. Will quickly put aside his tools and hurried towards his furious instructor.

"Ye missed yer lesson, lad," Avory accused him. The sergeant's icy blue eyes were electric with anger, but he delivered his message in a slow, threatening tone. "D' ye fancy yerself battle-ready? No need for more trainin'? Say the word, an' I'll save meself the trouble of instructin' ye, ye young ingrate!"

Will was horrified. "But it's storming outside! I only thought that you wouldn't be teaching me in such ill weather - I intended to-"

"Aha!" Avory stopped him. "So tell me, lad: d' ye only intend t' fight on pretty summer days? Only on nice, dry, level ground? P'raps only after ye've had a good night's sleep?" He paused, and the look of honest confusion on Will's face made him relent somewhat. He proceeded in a more conciliatory tone.

"Think it through, boy, think it through." Avery raised a gnarled index finger, and locked eyes with his cowed pupil. "Ye can't choose the day ye have t' fight. Nor the weather, nor even the place. Ye might fight on land, on board a tossing ship, on sand, in mud. Ye might be soaked t' the skin, tired, afraid, desperate. Ye can't control any o' that: the only thing ye control, is this." He slapped his hand down upon the hilt of his sword. "I mean t' train ye up so ye can fight any time, anywhere, an' not give a damn fer the rain or the mud, so that sword-fightin' is as natural t' ye as throwin' yer fists in a tavern brawl." He paused to consider the mild-mannered youth before him. "Well, if ye happened t' find yerself in a tavern brawl . . ." he added. Outside, the noise of the rain had grown louder as the storm intensified. "So, which is it?" Avory demanded.

Will pulled off his leather apron, and seized his favourite weapon. "Lead on, sir, if you please," he said. "I'm ready. And I shan't miss another lesson - not even for a hurricane."

Avory's thin mouth curled into a smile. "Good lad," he said, as they stepped out of the smithy into the downpour.


	6. A Question of Duty

**Character: **James Norrington

**Word Count: **1,327

**Prompt: **Bluster

**Summary:** Norrington ponders unwelcome advice from his father, and makes a fateful decision.

**NOTE: I have no claim whatsoever to any of the brilliant POTC characters; I am grateful to be sitting at a banquet table set by truly talented storytellers.**

**A/N:** Inspired by Lord Chesterfield's Letters to His Son. A special thank-you to **mrspencil** for her help and encouragement!

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**A Question of Duty**

The hour is late in Port Royal, and even the moon seems weary as it descends, little by little, through the deep blue of the midnight sky. The town is generally quiet, save for a few sporadic sounds of revelry from small parties of drunken soldiers, determined to see out the night as they stagger from one tavern to the next. In the Dockyard of the Royal Navy, most of the windows in the Admiral's headquarters are dark. One light still burns, however; one wakeful officer is unable to sleep.

James Norrington stares unhappily at the large square letter addressed to him, turning it over and over in his hands. He knows it is from his father, knows he must open it, knows he must read it. He can predict its contents as surely as a conjuror names the playing card that will be drawn from a marked deck.

It is merely a matter of stiffening the spine and getting on with it.

Already feeling the helpless resentment that his father's letters invariably provoke, he opens a bottle of Madeira (his second this evening) and downs the first drink in one gulp, then seats himself at his writing table.

He gazes at the soft, burnished glow of the table's rosewood surface and thinks of the countless years of polishing, the many campaigns, the orders given and decisions made to which it has borne silent witness; he rubs his palm across its satiny surface the way a horseman strokes the neck of a favourite mount. His writing table . . . for how much longer? Norrington tries to remember how long it takes to be cashiered out of the Royal Navy. He is not sure; perhaps another glass will help him recall.

News must have travelled faster than he had imagined, and he cringes to think how it will have been received at home: the story of his endless, futile pursuit of a single, disreputable pirate; the destruction wrought by the hurricane when his irrational obsession drove him to stay his course through the storm; the instances of his superiors repeatedly ordering him back to Port Royal (_how many times was it? He has lost count . . . _), before he finally yielded to their authority.

He breaks the wax seal and unfolds the letter.

_Dear Boy_, he reads. His father has never addressed him any other way, he thinks. He will never advance sufficiently in age or accomplishments for the old man to do otherwise; it is his way of asserting the lofty authority of a distinguished parent over a child who can never quite measure up to the mark.

The bluster begins immediately, each indignant query like a lash across Norrington's back: _What confounded madness has led to the rash acts of which I have received word? I am persuaded that the tropical sun must have turned your wits! How dare you use your command for a personal venture of any kind, let alone a low, unworthy folly such as this! Are you incapable of grasping the consequences: the wreck of your own life, the threat to your father's advancement? And this is the return I am to expect after tirelessly working to fit you for a brilliant career in the great society of the world. If you cannot mind and remember my advice, all is lost – you have cut a very bad figure at the Admiralty, where all that you have said and done is known! _

Norrington's jaw is clenched with anger at the hopelessness of explaining his position, and his mouth forms a tight, straight line. He sighs, lowers the letter, and sees the second (perhaps the third) glass of Madeira at his elbow. He empties and refills it before continuing to read.

Now the letter proceeds in a more kindly fashion, which Norrington finds just as difficult to bear. His father, having vented his spleen, is preparing to take command of the disaster wrought by his son.

_As a personal favour_ (this makes Norrington flush with anger and embarrassment), _certain friends on the Admiralty Board have allowed me to recommend that you resign your commission before you can be cashiered out; this may possibly avoid the disgrace of a court-martial – although disobeying orders is an extremely serious charge, as you should not need to be reminded. You must plan to return home quietly without delay, and the family will see what may be done to salvage your prospects. — Adieu._

Norrington lays the letter on the desk, presses the fingertips of his left hand on it, and slides it slowly, deliberately, off the edge, letting it fall to the floor. Disgraced, he thinks, utterly disgraced. The years he had applied himself to his education, the years of service in the Royal Navy under a constant bombardment of admonitory letters from his father — all has been swept away by one dirty, ill-bred rascal of a pirate.

He swallows more of the Madeira, thinking. If he yields to his father's plan, he will never catch the filthy rogues who have ruined his life. Yet he knows that to yield is his filial duty.

But is it a duty which predominates all other considerations? What of his personal quest to rid the Indies of pirates? What of seeking revenge—no, he corrects himself, it is _justice _he seeks—for the crimes and many insults to his honour administered by one Jack Sparrow?

His father, the Navy. . . none of them understand. With an angry movement, he helps himself to another glass. And Sparrow? Sparrow is getting away with it, isn't he? Making a mockery of all Norrington's beliefs, ruining his match with the pure and lovely Elizabeth, and flouting the efforts of the King's men to discharge their sworn duty.

Norrington begins to entertain a desperate thought: perhaps he should take matters into his own hands. If the Navy and his father cannot see that Sparrow must be dealt with, then perhaps it is up to him, Norrington, to assume the responsibility. Does he have the courage to foreswear all he holds dear so that he may pursue the _Pearl_ by himself?

And how can he pursue them, with no ship or crew of his own? What becomes of a man when he abandons his position?

He stares at the bottle and thinks of Mr Gibbs' chequered career, veering between midshipman and pirate. After a moment, he smiles. There is indeed an answer. He doesn't need to pursue them – he needs to be waiting for them, in the one place he knows he will eventually find them: Tortuga.

At some point, they will require Tortuga, either to indulge their depraved tastes or to sign on new crew. His smile widens; what will they do when they are approached by a renegade wastrel named James Norrington? He might even be able to despatch them on the spot, without signing their damned "Articles" or any other embarrassing claptrap.

He finishes the Madeira and his expression is solemn as he considers any potential setback to his scheme. How long might it take him? It may be months before they visit Tortuga. He considers this logically; if he must wait, so be it. At least Tortuga will have drink. Rum, wine, ale, the pleasures of the town; a man could make himself quite comfortable. He tips the empty bottle on its side. _Dead soldier_, he muses, _No — this time it will be 'dead pirate'._ The joke makes him laugh quietly.

Then he takes up paper, ink bottle, and quill. _Well, Father_, he concludes with grim satisfaction_, at least I am falling in with a portion of your plan. _

With a sense of unreality, he settles himself to write his final letter to Governor Swann. Its contents are brief:

_Trusting that you will apprehend my reasons, I beg leave to offer my Commission, and take this opportunity to retire to private life, effective immediately. Farewell, and may you and all who belong to you, enjoy many happy years and spare an occasional thought for_

_ Your most faithful, dutiful servant._


End file.
